


Band of Brothers

by rthecynic



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: But only a tiny bit, Gen, There is a tiny little bit of guns and shooting and wounds, and it's a Musketeers fic so I guess it kinda comes with the territory, beginnings of friendship between d'Art and the boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 11:55:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthecynic/pseuds/rthecynic
Summary: Written from a prompt by Enigma_TM. At the end of S1E1 when Porthos decides to escort Athos home, D'Artagnan goes along with them and finds himself being accepted into the team.





	Band of Brothers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Enigma_TM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigma_TM/gifts).



“I’d better stay here. Someone’ll need to carry him home.”

As Porthos gestured over his shoulder to the table in the corner, D’Artagnan found his gaze wandering over to their lone companion, sat staring into nothingness as he poured himself another glass of wine.

“Is he always like this?” he murmured to the other two men at his table, only barely glancing away from Athos as he spoke to them. “He seems... well, a bit out of it...”

“It has been a rather trying day,” Aramis shrugged, trying to wave him off. “I mean, he did nearly die this morning. He’ll be fine. He always is. Now, do you have somewhere to stay?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a place...” the young Gascon replied, still somewhat focused on Athos and paying very little attention to his other new friends.

“In the arms of Miss Bonacieux?”

That caught his attention, and he whipped around just in time to catch Aramis’ proud smirk.

“Well, I’d best be off! Porthos, please make sure our friend doesn’t drink himself to death. D’Artagnan, I can walk you as far as the Louvre if...”

“No, I... I think I’ll stay a while...”

“Suit yourself.” Aramis stood and shrugged his jacket over his shoulders, then settled his hat upon his head. “Thank you for your help yesterday, D’Artagnan. We would have lost a fine swordsman if it hadn’t been for you. And a good friend... Goodnight.”

Aramis placed a hand on Porthos’ shoulder for a moment as he walked by; an affectionate gesture that was clearly well practiced, evidenced by how fluidly Porthos’ hand came up to momentarily rest atop the other man’s. D’Artagnan could have sworn that an entire conversation took place between them in that moment, even though no words were exchanged. He’d never seen a group of friends - of brothers - with such a close bond, never mind experienced it for himself. It was somewhat jarring, and yet... It was nice to see.

Now that it was just the two of them, Porthos began to lean across the table to speak to D’Artagnan in low tones, and the younger man found himself doing the same.

“Listen; Athos can be a little... morose at times, and I think that’s why he likes to drink alone. He doesn’t talk a lot about his life before the Musketeers, and it isn’t really our place to press him about it. But I do know that he lost a woman that he loved, and I think he still carries a lot of... I dunno, hurt, or guilt, or something... But he’s a good man and a loyal friend. Try not to judge him too harshly.”

D’Artagnan nodded slowly, once again finding himself glancing over towards Athos, who was now slumped over the table, bottle still in his hand.

“Porthos, I... Well...”

He gestured over towards their drunken friend and Porthos let out a long sigh.

“Yeah, right, time to get him home...”

~*~*~

He wasn’t entirely sure why, but D’Artagnan found himself following Porthos through the streets of Paris, even though he was certain that they were moving further away from his lodgings. Somehow, he just felt that he should be there. Only yesterday, he had wanted to kill this man... Hell, he had tried his damndest to kill this man! And yet, now, knowing how wrong he had been, he felt like he wanted to reach out to him.

Maybe it was a feeling of wanting to fix his mistake and atone for his initial rudeness? Or perhaps he simply recognised that Athos was hurting and felt closer to him for it, for they both seemed to be carrying an irreperable hole in their hearts that even time would not be able to heal. D’Artagnan understood loss, and his wounds were fresh, so his heart went out to this man who had seemingly loved so dearly and lost so tragically. And perhaps Athos would understand D’Artagnan’s own heartache, and...

A loud bang caught his attention, and then a loud curse from Porthos. Screaming erupted throughout the street, and it suddenly registered that the wall just inches in front of Porthos’ head had a bullet lodged within it. Out of the corner of his eye, D’Artagnan just managed to catch sight of a hooded figure as they slipped away into a side street.

“Take Athos home!” he called out to Porthos, struggling to make himself heard over the commotion that had broken out. Before the Musketeer could even reply, D’Artagnan had taken off after their attacker, determined not to lose them. Thank God muskets weren’t the most accurate weapons from a distance. It was likely this lack of accuracy that had saved Porthos’ life. After all, even Aramis, who Porthos had assured him was the most skilled marksman in the Musketeers, and perhaps even in France, had said that his accuracy with a musket was often flawed.

But who would have attacked them, and why? It had been too well planned to be a random attack, D’Artagnan was sure. Someone had been targeting them; laying in wait for Porthos to come along his usual route towards Athos’ home. Or perhaps the target had been Athos, or even D’Artagnan himself, but why...?

Distracted by the thoughts swirling around in his head, D’Artagnan was taken completely by surprise as he rounded a corner and was immediately hit with a searing pain in his arm. Looking down, he saw blood staining his shirt; a graze from a bullet. When he looked up again, he saw the hooded figure, aiming a pistol at his head. He froze.

“Who are you?”

“That’s none of your concern,” the figure replied. “My employer has no issue with you. Step aside.”

“And let you hurt those Musketeers?” D’Artagnan spat. “I don’t think so!”

“Get out of the way, boy!”

“You’ll have to kill me first!”

“So be it...!”

A shot rang out, but it wasn’t D’Artagnan who fell. The young man blinked in surprise as the hooded figure collapsed, shot right between the eyes.

“Damn it, kid! Have you got a death wish?!”

D’Artagnan spun around to see Porthos emerging from the shadows, pistol still smoking in his hand.

“Porthos! I... Thank you... But... What about Athos? I thought...”

“And let you get yourself killed? Not a chance!” The older Musketeer reached out to cuff D’Artagnan on the back of the head. “But that was stupid, you hear me? If you want to be a Musketeers, you need to learn to not act rashly! Jesus, kid, have you no impulse control?!”

“I just wanted to...!”

“I know what you wanted to do, and I’m telling you it was stupid! But I can’t deny that you’re brave... Just... stick with us, alright? At least let someone have your back if you want to be a hero.”

D’Artagnan just rolled his eyes and went to examine the body, pulling the hood away to expose the face.

“Any idea who he is? Why he would have attacked you?”

“Not a clue,” Porthos grunted, toeing the corpse distastefully with his boot. “He’s not wearing a Red Guard uniform, or any distinguishing marks, and I don’t recognise him from any sort of personal slight...”

“He said something about an employer...” D’Artagnan murmured. “Someone must have hired him to...”

“We’ll figure it out soon enough,” Porthos assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “And in the meantime, we’ll just have to watch our backs.”

“Alright... And what about Athos...? Where is he?”

“I left him at an inn,” Porthos shrugged. “Told the innkeeper to just put him upstairs and I’d come back and pay him after I caught up with you.”

“I’ll go,” D’Artagnan shrugged. “It’s probably too late for me to turn up at Madame Bonacieux’ house now anyway. I’ll pay for his bed along with my own.”

Porthos nodded his understanding.

“If you’re sure. It’s just back down the road; The Duck and Pig. Aramis and I will come by to meet you for breakfast in the morning. Just... check on Athos before you go to bed, will you?”

“Of course. I’ll see you in the morning.”

With a slight tip of their hats, the two friends split up to go their separate ways; Porthos back to his own lodgings, and D’Artagnan back to The Duck and Pig. Upon entering, he paid the landlord for both rooms and asked to be taken to Athos. Now having been paid, the landlord happily complied and led D’Artagnan to the Musketeer’s room, leaving him with a key to the one next door for when he decided to retire to his own bed.

Athos was still and silent as the grave when D’Artagnan entered his room, and the young man took a moment to assure himself that his companion was still breathing before collapsing into a chair. He now took a moment to properly look at the wound on his bicep, cursing as he did so. It was shallow enough and wouldn’t need to be stitched, and it was no longer bleeding profusely, but it did still sting, and he would need to clean and wrap it if he didn’t want to risk infection.

Retrieving the washbasin, he shrugged out of his shirt and began to dab at the wound with a clean washcloth, hissing as he did so. It was only a few moments before he heard a soft groan, and then a few mumbled words;

“The hell happened to you...?”

“Athos?” D’Artagnan glanced over his shoulder towards the bed, one eyebrow raised. “I didn’t expect you to be waking up any time soon. Forgive me; I only intended to check on your wellbeing. I will retire to my own...”

“I asked what happened to you!”

The speech was slurred, and yet Athos still managed to sound somewhat commanding, despite his position sprawled out in bed, eyes barely open.

“Someone attacked us on the way here,” D’Artagnan told him with a shrug. “Porthos took care of it.”

“Are you alright...?”

“Yes. It’s just a scratch. I only need to clean it; that’s all.”

Silence hung heavy between the two of them for a few moments, leading D’Artagnan to believe that Athos had fallen back into his deep slumber. He turned his attention back to cleaning his wound, but was soon disturbed again.

“Where are we?”

“In an inn somewhere near your lodgings. Porthos left you here so that he could deal with the attacker. I have the room next door.”

Silence fell once again, and this time it was D’Artagnan who broke it.

“Listen, I... I’m sorry for the way I accused you yesterday... I...”

“You fight well.”

D’Artagnan blinked, the interruption taking him by surprise.

“I’m sorry...?”

“You fight well,” Athos repeated, “Swordsmanship worthy of a Musketeer. Who taught you?”

“My father...” D’Artagnan couldn’t help the way his voice cracked as he spoke the word. “He... He was a great man. A great Musketeer, in his youth...”

“And so will you be.”

D’Artagnan was once again taken by surprise, all thoughts of apologies forgotten in sight of this unexpected praise.

“I... Thank you, Athos.”

“I’ll train you...” the drunken man slurred. “You will be an asset to the regiment...”

D’Artagnan shook his head and got to his feet. Athos was clearly just rambling now, and it would probably be best if he was just left to rest a little. So D’Artagnan emptied the bloodied water from the washbasin and finished tying off the cloth that he had bound his wound with, then made his way to the door.

“I’ll leave you to sleep it off. Goodnight A-”

Athos’ hand suddenly gripped his wrist like a vice, and D’Artagnan found himself unable to do anything but stare down at the other man in shock.

“Please, D’Artagnan, I beg of you, do not leave me alone tonight. I have stared death in the face today and you have no idea how my dreams haunt me...”

Without a word, D’Artagnan took a few paces back and sat back in his chair, and only then did Athos let go of his wrist.

“Get some sleep, Athos,” the Gascon sighed. “I’ll stay. Just get some rest.”

~*~*~

It wasn’t long before Athos drifted off into an uneasy sleep and D’Artagnan, true to his word, remained by his side. It wasn’t comfortable, and he would much rather have been in his own room next door, but he somehow didn’t have the heart to leave, even once Athos was asleep. The man was obviously pained, and he didn’t seem like the type to accept comfort, much less ask for it. How, then, could D’Artagnan abandon him?

So he stayed in the chair, maintaining his vigil, until the sun’s rays began to peek through the shutters. Athos gave a loud groan from the bed and rolled over to face the wall.

Deciding that the older Musketeer likely wouldn’t remember anything from the night before, D’Artagnan finally got up and slipped out of the room, determined to at least get an hour or two of sleep before Porthos and Aramis came calling. He may not have known Athos well, but he definitely had the feeling that he wouldn’t appreciate having been seen in such a vulnerable state as he had allowed D’Artagnan to see the night before. And so, D’Artagnan would pretend that it had never happened. He’d allow Athos his dignity, and never speak a word of it, even to the man himself. But he decided that he would keep a close eye on his new friend, offer him as much silent support as he was able. After all, wasn’t that what a band of brothers was supposed to do?

**Author's Note:**

> I finally wrote something, yay! I did this story as part of a prompt exchange with Enigma_TM, and I hope I did it justice!  
> If anyone else wants to hit me up with prompts, or to do an exchange, please let me know! 
> 
> You can find me at capitaineathos.tumblr.com :)


End file.
